Under the Suns
by Junker Georg
Summary: Bib Fortuna finds himself entangled in intrigue at Jabba's palace.
1. Chapter 1

Under the suns, sand. Sand forever, in dunes and in flats, sand on the tops of cliffs and between them in sand valleys, and on the wind and in his boots and between his toes. Bib hated sand. He hated the suns, too, though that felt a little more extravagant. Sand was always right there at hand to be hated. The whole of Tatooine was made of nothing else. Sand could be kicked and spit on. He could only curse at the suns. Which he did, of course, as he did at most things. But hating the suns was a proud and wild thing, an act of almost spiritual aspiration. Hating the suns meant hating his life, despising the fate that had brought him here at all. Under the thumb of Jabba. Fat Jabba, stinking Jabba, slimy Jabba. Jabba who could no longer even move without assistance, but who still lorded it over him and everyone else. Jabba, whom half the galaxy hated and wanted dead, but who seemed indestructible and everlasting.

These were the rhythms and contours of Bib's thoughts as he trudged across the dunes. The double suns were completing their slow arc over the horizon, and they cast the whole world-desert in a rosy light, out of which rose the spires of Jabba's palace, set over the sand like a soldier on watch. Or like a prison guard. Bib had gone wandering out into the Dune Sea because his hatred for the sand had been matched and beaten by his hatred of being in Jabba's presence. The whole palace seemed to reek of him and echo his croaking voice until Bib could no longer abide it. And so he went from hate to hate, and chewed on his hatred as he went.

Something unfamiliar caught Bib's notice as he drew near the squat rotunda. A spider-droid, bearing the preserved and suspended brain of one of the elder monks who lived in the dark recesses beneath the palace, picking its way clumsily through the shifting sands. Bib knew the monks, of course, and had spoken with their initiates from time to time, but the novices did not discard their fleshly frames. Only their masters were deemed worthy to set aside the bodily form, free then (so they believed) to turn their thoughts to the abstract absolute. Every so often, one could see the spider-droids shambling through the palace's subterranean complex with these unbodied mystics stored in their transparent bellies—but never, so far as Bib knew, did they venture out into the dunes. Its jointed limbs were not well-suited to managing the unstable surface of the desert, and it slid and wavered as it walked, but, still, it seemed intent on its goal. Which, he realized after a few moments, appeared to be Bib himself. An uneasy feeling squirmed through the region of his innards, and his hand drifted vaguely toward the heavy blaster hanging on his hip. Of course, the spider-droids had no armaments. But then, the spider-droids never left the palace, either.

The droid stopped advancing and scrabbled its legs to gain steady purchase at the crest of a low dune. Bib made to pass it by, and it shuffled laterally as though to cut him off. A tinny voice rang out from it in flat but recognizable Huttese. A vocoder, if a cheap one.

"Stop. We have words."

Bib turned to face it. His knees flexed almost imperceptibly, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to run. Or to drop into a firing stance. The ends of his brain-tails twitched in the dry air.

"Say them, then, and let me pass."

The droid shuffled its feet.

"Not here," it said.

"Piss off, then," Bib growled, and strode past it in quickstep.

"Important," the droid said to his back. "About the Hutt. You will want."

Bib stopped, and turned in place. He squinted at the droid. One of his brain-tails wavered

gently in the air.

"What about the Hutt?" Fat Jabba. Stinking Jabba. Jabba who kept him shackled to this dusty rock.

The droid's limbs shifted back and forth as if in agitation.

"Not safe. Not here. Below palace."

It began moving again in its shambly gait toward the rocky slope of the plateau on which Jabba's stronghold rested. After a few painstaking yards, it turned itself to face Bib once again.

"Follow." Though there was an almost plaintive edge to the vocoder's dull intonation. Almost a question. Almost a plea: _Follow?_ Bib gritted his razor teeth. He lowered his head. He trudged after the droid.

It led him to the base of the plateau and then a quarter of the way around its perimeter, in the lengthening shadow of the palace. Stopping suddenly, the droid arranged itself carefully inside a rough circle of scattered rocks. It stood stock still for a moment and then emitted a series of clicks and bursts of crackling static. Bib blinked and rubbed sand from his eyes. A low rumble shook the packed earth beneath his feet, and the surface of the desert gave way before the droid, resolving itself into a narrow ramp leading into darkness. The droid scuttled its way downward.

"Follow," it said.

Bib sighed. _Follow_. He stepped down beneath the sand.


	2. Chapter 2

The ramp terminated in a broad, low chamber of smooth stone, clearly cut and shaped, lit very dimly by a pair of lights hanging on a distant wall ahead of Bib. To his left and right, it extended until the light faded and died, and he could not see any longer. The spider-droid scuttled further onward, and Bib carried on after it. Behind him, the automated ramp rumbled into motion once more, closing slowly and depositing a layer of scattered sand on the floor. Bib's stomach squirmed again, but he suppressed the feeling. Of course, he kept his gun-hand near to the grip of the blaster, too.

Approaching nearer to the far wall with its twin lights, Bib discerned a doorway between them, a black and forbidding durasteel perhaps three feet wide and seven high. Stopping once again, the droid sounded another signal of clicks and bursts, and the door slid open. Bib blinked against the sudden flood of light beyond it. When his focus returned, he saw a crowd of perhaps a dozen figures garbed in the robes of B'omarr initiates. Their faces were obscured by hoods, though this was not the ordinary practice of the order. Bib hesitated at the edge of the doorway, brain-tails waving in rapid but near-imperceptible arcs. One of the assembled monks stepped forward.

"Hrm, please, majordomo. We do not intend to harm you." Spreading his arms, he added, "We bear no weapons."

Bib drew the blaster.  
>"I do," he said. "And I would like to know what is going on."<p>

"Of course," the monk said. "Please, come in here."

"I prefer to stay where I am," Bib said.

The monk shrugged.

"As you like. This is not a trap, Bib Fortuna. It is… an opportunity."

"What do you want?" Bib growled.

"Something we suspect you do, too. We want Jabba the Hutt to die."

One brain-tail jerked spasmodically. This all felt distinctly off. The B'omarr monks were not inclined to interfere with politics. Even criminal politics. When Jabba had claimed their monastery as his own personal fortress—and before him, the thief-prince Alkhara—they had meekly accepted the new way of things and gone about their lives as before, neither resisting nor even complaining, at least that one might hear. No less likely assassins existed in the known universe. Bib stepped backward slowly, blaster still trained on the hooded monk.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "And I will be leaving now."

"You can't get out," the monk replied. "Not without this." He produced a tiny, dark sphere, smaller in diameter than the width of Bib's fingertip.

"Please," the monk said, "Take it. It's a coded sound emitter. It will open our doors to you so that you can leave. Or return, if you reconsider." He held it out to Bib on an open palm, though he did not come any closer. Bib squinted, considering. Blaster leveled in his right hand, he extended the left and slowly stepped within arm's reach of the monk's proffered palm. Seizing the tiny thing, he backed away once more.

"Squeeze it to activate the sound," the monk said.

Bib did. The door slid shut again, and he could see the monks no more.


	3. Chapter 3

Returning to his quarters, Bib could not shake a bone-deep confusion and wariness. He lay down on his bed to think. It was, of course, impossible that the monks could be in earnest. Mystics and logicians, they took no notice of anything occurring around them unless it smacked of fodder for meditation. No, Bib was sure that this must be a trap, some sort of snare set for him. But who could be behind it? Jabba was as blind to the world as they were, in his own way—totally enmeshed in the petty pleasures of his court and in the administration of his various businesses. Bib doubted whether Jabba even knew the monks existed.

Presumably, then, some rival member of Jabba's organization was trying to bait him into overreaching. Honestly, the idea was not a bad one, assuming the schemer could cover his tracks—if Bib accepted the bait and destroyed himself, the unknown plotter could take a step up in the Hutt's ranks. If Bib ignored the trap, no harm done at all. And if Bib accepted the offer and somehow managed to make it succeed… Well, then, that would be interesting. Jabba's death—stinking Jabba, wretched Jabba—would leave quite an impression on the galactic underworld. Perhaps enough to let a man with the right contacts and the right talents set himself up in true style.

Bib shook his head slightly. In all likelihood, this was the exact train of thought he was meant to be having. Someone had reached out to touch him with the monks, hoping greed and vengeance would be strong enough inducements to take a fatal misstep. But who? Ree-Yees was vicious enough, but really rather stupid. Even if he had a contact among the B'omarr, he would almost certainly go about this more bluntly and directly. A clumsy approach face to face, believing himself to be sly all the while—that was more in keeping with the Gran's character. He was fool enough to believe that Jabba remained unaware that he was trying to kill him. In fact, the Hutt had put an explosive in his innards, waiting only for the right words from Jabba—_boom_. Tessek was brighter, and just as much a schemer, but he had little reason to angle for advancement. Running the Hutt's finances gave him ample opportunity to embezzle from them, and Bib knew he had no love at all for Jabba. He would be happy to see the Hutt die.

That left only one likely candidate, and Bib had to admit it had always been the most logical conclusion. Ephant Mon, Jabba's guard dog. Ephant was perhaps the only being in the universe who felt any genuine loyalty to the Hutt, and it was to all appearances unshakeable. That made him a dangerous man already, alone as he was in a whole crowd of cutthroat opportunists. Those sorts could be handled—just prove that something could be profitable (or make it seem that way) and they would fall in line. But loyalty was single-minded. Ephant was more than just loyal, though. Appearances aside, he was sharp and cunning, ruthless and efficient in the execution of his operations, but patient and subtle in preparation. If Ephant was the one behind all this—and Bib could hardly envision another scenario—it meant that he had been watching Bib closely for a long time. It also meant that the B'omarr were probably only the bright and shiny hook waved in front of Bib's face, meant for him to notice and feel clever by avoiding it. And all the while, Ephant would have been digging pits and setting snares, or creeping up behind Bib, ready to slit his throat… Bib closed his eyes. Ephant Mon. A dangerous enemy.

But so was Bib.


End file.
